


You come regular like the seasons, shadowing my dreams

by Hope_Tang



Series: Tea [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Post-The Blind Banker, Spoiler Warning: The Blind Banker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1428097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope_Tang/pseuds/Hope_Tang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Afterwards, he thinks he sees her in the shops, on the corners, at the markets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You come regular like the seasons, shadowing my dreams

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with _Sherlock_. I’m not even British…
> 
>  
> 
> **Author’s Notes** : As always, thank you to my wonderful friends, cheerleaders, and beta-readers dkwrkm and willowr. Any mistakes you may see are mine and mine alone.

*

Afterwards, he thinks he sees her in the shops, on the corners, at the markets. He tells himself he's imagining things, _projecting_ , as his overbearing father would scoff if they were still on speaking terms. He knows that every petite Asian woman with long hair can't possibly be her – will never be her. She's dead, buried in a grave far from her homeland, and he never visits. (He pours tea instead, the way she would like it.)

That doesn't stop him from taking a second look every time he thinks he sees her ghost. (Tomorrow, he will volunteer to lead the Tea Ceremony demonstration for the tourists. They won't understand. She might.)

*

Afterwards, with her hair cut short and curled, a heart condition to match her scars, she stays away from the familiar. She will never visit Chinatown again; it's too dangerous. Instead, she slips in and out of small local shops, and asks favours from her classmates, borrowing ( _begging_ ) for spices and bits of home. She is adrift again in the world. There is nothing to tie her to her past, except for what she cannot shed. She is the Phoenix reborn, but was it worth losing herself? (She still reaches for a teapot that is not – will never be – there.)

She reads at an exclusive university. She studies hard, drinks bitter coffee, and speaks to nearly no one. She aces her examinations. Her new employers approve. She wonders if she's sold her soul, exchanging one master for another, but there is no freedom from duty, only choices. Run or stay. Live or die. Sometimes, there is no choice at all. Yes or no. Sometimes, there is.

She drinks sweetened English tea, and dreams of a world where she said Yes to a drink.

*

Two years on, his sister marries (happily). The newlyweds say their vows under the soaring arches of a public school’s chapel. Their father preens with unearned pride. Their mother acquiesces from beyond the grave. As her brother, he approves because the bride smiles with joy.

Afterwards, he walks along the river and watches students punt – some with success, most without. His sister says, in that rare quiet moment, that he laughs less. He knows she worries. ( _"She's the first person you've known who's died violently, but you told me yourself, you didn't know her that well. It's...not healthy what you're doing."_ He knows it's not, but he made Assistant Curator of the China collection last month, so it's not entirely pointless. He still makes tea.) He tells her not to fret.

It's quiet, and he walks into a grove of trees that conceal a garden. Two students curl in an alcove and whisper secrets between their textbooks. Another student sprawls in the sun, half dozing, half reading. And yet another sits in grey shadows, books scattered around her like pupils in recitation.

He walks on, back along the riverbank. He sees but does not observe.

She breathes again.

*

Three years further on, and she is back on streets she once knew. Half a decade since she's walked these lanes and alleys, and it has changed. The world has changed; the monsters that hide in the shadows are different. She is different, with degrees in hand, a new job, and a new life. She has colleagues and acquaintances, a mentor or two. It's not perfect, but it is bearable.

Her mentor finds her one morning and sends her out on an errand: a tea shop near the Law Courts, recently opened and far from Leicester Square. M meets with the legal attachés in an hour: three blends of coffee, six types of tea, and sugar. Someone else will bring the milk. (She will stop by Tesco for an extra bottle.)

The shop's simplicity lends to its pretentiousness. The selection may be varied, but it caters to a certain type of clientele and the clerk sends shivers down her spine. She will not be coming here again.

Except.

She stands in front of shelves hidden in the very back of the shop. There are no Roman characters here in elegant script. There are glass jars and loose leaves and Jiejie's ghost. She pauses, just for a moment, to breathe.

Five years. For five years – no, for longer, far longer – she has been running from her past. She has learned to own her choices, but she has never quite been herself, always someone else. She has not stopped. She wonders if she can. She wonders if she dares.

She does.

Inhale.

*

He's heard mixed reviews about this new store near the Law Courts, but everyone agrees that it has an incomparable selection of Asian teas, and he knows he needs to restock and expand her collection. He knows the names of her teas, both English and native, but above all, he knows the scent they leave behind in the air. Their fragrances are a more perfect language than imprecise translations, the way he picks out the authentic from the imitations.

It's here, the moment he walks in the door, and he knows he will return before the week is over.  In his pantry, he keeps the world at hand. A bad day? English. A long day? Turkish. A bitter one? Moroccan. A wistful one? Chinese, imperial style. She has taught him to love another world.

He visited her last year, with red incense and paper prayers. No one did this for her when they should have, on the day of her funeral. ( _"Funerals are for the living, Andy. If the person doesn't have any family left, there's no point."_

_"Just because we don't believe it's necessary, doesn't mean that she didn't."_

_“It doesn’t matter; a proper funeral is dependent on her husband and children. She had neither, so by her own culture’s traditions—”_

_"What Mr Galbraith means, Mr Berton-Smyth, is that a little more respect for your potential position with the Asia department and your predecessor's memory might be wise."_

_"Ms Ansah, I—I meant no disrespect..."_

_"I would hope not. Andy. If you need anything, let me know.")_

He's sure he botched parts of the ceremony, but his voice was steady and true. If she needed lanterns to find her way home, he hoped she saw them in the wisps of smoke. He never sees her anymore, her ghost a fragile memory in the cradle of his hands. He's never dreamed of her and hopes he never will (unless it is to think of her happy and at peace).

He ignores the bored clerk behind the counter, sidesteps lost tourists and the curious, and follows that faint lure. A turn, a side step, a corner, "excuse me," until the lack of English labels unnerves the customers. Except one, a woman, her back to him, a dark purse on her shoulder, a black bag on her arm, and packages in her basket. She stares at the shelf above her line of sight. The aisle is narrow and he slips in behind her.

He doesn't want to disturb her memories.

*

Exhale.

Someone approaches. Twenty-six minutes left – three to go to the counter, six to buy milk and creamer, fifteen to make it back to the office with two to spare. Call the car now.

She takes a step back.

*

The aisle’s too narrow.

He's too close.

*

"I'm sorry, I didn't – "

*


End file.
